


To the beat, y'all

by blackandflaky



Category: The Get Down (TV)
Genre: F/M, more tags to come, the fantastic four plus one, the get down - Freeform, triggers in the show are the same
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-08-15 13:49:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8058751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackandflaky/pseuds/blackandflaky
Summary: This is the fucking Bronx, man.





	1. not nursery rhyming

Ezekiel writes. Period. For him, it’s an entire state of being, the alpha and omega to everything he is. There’s the get down and his brothers, and there’s Mylene and his aunt and the internship and there’s the long months of summer, but in the end, it all comes down to writing. Someone once said that you have an infinite number of yourselves and the truest one is the one you find when you’re on your own. Or at least, he’s pretty sure someone said that. They should.

The self Ezekiel is when he’s alone talks a lot, in soft hushed whispering. He mumbles to himself and taps out half a rhythm on his notebook, tastes the words on his tongue before putting them down. He stares into the ceiling and smiles sometimes, when a rhyme hits home or three words in succession sound _really_ good. Sometimes he cries, not often, but sometimes. Some nights he feels empty, a sort of hollow pain that has to be forced out to be felt. That sucks. But it only happens sometimes.

Sometimes he shares his writings with his brothers. His rhymes of course, for the get down. Those are shared over spiked kool-aid and a joint, in Shaolin’s crib or on the roof, the sun far below the horizon and their kingdom sparkling in filthy light-up reality. Those are always met with enthusiasm, whoops and laughter, mostly Boo hanging over his shoulder and making grabby hands at the notebook. Those rhymes are fun, those rhymes are okay to share in a circle, but the real important ones, the ones that need criticism and feedback he prefers to share in private. Those ones are about the Bronx. They’re stories and adventures and bits and pieces about sunlight and colors and broken cement.

 

The someone who said that thing about having an infinite number of selves, probably also said something about an infinite number of ways to interpret the people you surround yourself with. Ezekiel is a writer before he is anything else, has a writer’s eyes, accustomed to the grittiness of the Bronx.

When he reads his rhymes to Mylene, her eyes are soft and trained on his face. She sits away from him, but her hands are close to him, open. She doesn’t say much but smiles when he can’t and sings when he’s quiet. Sometimes his writings are about her, just to see her blush. Those are his favorite.

Boo is younger than him, and filled with fire crackers, bursting out through his legs. He’s not a fan of sitting still, so Ezekiel writes him funny lines, dirty lines, poems recited where the Kipling parents can’t hear. Boo-Boo laughs until his stomach cramps and kicks his legs in the air says ‘you _got_ me man, there it is, _there it is_. He always hugs Ezekiel afterwards, like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

Ra-Ra was always one of his best friends. Clever and kind and soft around the edges but just as loyal as anyone. Ezekiel writes adventures to match those in his comics, metagalactic versions of their lives but cleverly constructed into his own poetry – Ra spends so much of his time worrying that he’s on the wrong side of awkward. The rhymes leave him grinning and star-eyed and he says ‘genius if I ever saw one, god _damn_ Zeke’

Dizzee should be easy to write for. Dizzee spends every waking hour being _amazed_ by the world, he’s inspired by the very idea of creating something for its own purpose. But Ezekiel spends time writing for him, ponders over details and conjugations, verbal little treasures that only an alien in a tophat would find worth noticing. But it always pays off in the end. Dizzee leans back in his bed or all the way forward to rest on his knees and he’s so _into it._ He says ‘I can feel it’ and closes his eyes. He always asks Ezekiel to repeat lines or the whole thing, to put another rhythm to it. Slow down, speed up, _yes_ , there it is. _I can feel it_ , he says with his hands in front of him and Ezekiel thinks that he’d like to see the world through Dizzee’s eyes, just for a day.

He writes for Shaolin too. Cautiously. Shaolin is - something else. He's distant and always two steps away even when he's under Ezekiel's arm or right in front of his face and he doesn't even know how old Shao is. Ezekiel never claimed to get off perfectly in life, but Shaolin is _different. This ain’t no Disneyland_. But the only reason he’s with him is his words, his way of writing, so he puts down words that are only meant for Shao – cautiously. Writes about the Bronx. About his father, about dangerous territory at night and his brothers and burning buildings and music, he writes about writing and reads it too him across the turntables. Shaolin never says anything. He looks at him with shadowed eyes that are difficult to read – never says anything. But Ezekiel can feel in the air, in the vibes, that that isn’t a bad thing.

 

He writes. It's what he does.


	2. the first day we met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is the direct result of a caffeine driven all-nighter also I truly do not know the meaning of beta-reading have fun

Shaolin turns around in the night and pulls up connections in his head, who he might hit up to get bottles and girls. He sets off across the street, except there, crouched between trashy leftovers on the broken cement, there’s that _fucking_ kid. That kid from that afternoon, those stupid fucking side burns, except now his skinny ass is dressed in dusty blue clothes, lined with orange. He looks fucking ridiculous.

“Yo!” He’s immediately pissed off. Power in his strides, his hands start to itch and tingle, he wants to run. Sideburns straightens and his eyes are hostile and dark. Like he knows what’s coming, like he’s got everything under control. Street-smart in his mind, probably. Shaolin sizes him up, all points and sharp edges.

“Where’s my fucking record?” He asks, but there it is, under the kid’s arm, dirtied and crumpled from being treated in a way no one should legally be allowed to treat a record. The kid fires back, _right fucking here,_ and then it’s spit-fire back and forth between the two of them, just a few seconds of raging. He has to get that record, he has to make this discoed beanstalk _understand_ why he should give it the fuck up. Nevermind that he understands the cause - just that you don’t fuck with Shaolin or the Grandmaster.

The bouncer yells up behind him, sends him away. Bad for the customers, _take it around corner_. So he calms himself down, settles for what might has to go down in the privacy of a filthy alleyway. He calls the kid little man, to see his lips twitch and the fire in his eyes, to have fun. Then he turns around.

 

 

The kid follows and Shaolin’s fucked up. He’s not much younger than Shaolin himself but he's probably in _high school_ and shit. He probably has someone worrying. Shaolin doesn’t wanna be known as the guy who beat up a high-schooler for a disco record, but he’d much less be known to the Grandmaster as a disappointment and he’s getting desperate. So he wrenches off his jacket and turns to face the kid who’s done the same - the shirt underneath is almost too much. He shows off just then, to make his hands stop fidgeting, to scare off the kid - nothing happens. Sideburns stands still, eyes dark and calculating and for a second - confused.

“The fuck you doing?”

Shaolin answers with something else, and it’s spit-fire back and forth again, a threat from him and goddamn _sarcasm_ from Disco, like Shaolin’s some substitute teacher to be fucked around with. His blood is boiling when the kid says “It’s for my girl” and he almost backs out in sheer surprise. What a fucking asshole.

Next thing any of them know is that they’re against the wall and Shaolin is screaming at this kid’s face and this _fucking nut_ is screaming back, all over that stupid scratched up disco bullshit and a pretty girl. His knife is out now, pressed to the soft part under the kid’s chin and Shaolin has _never_ seen someone pull a face like that. Pure martyrdom. A hero’s death. What a bitch. He gives the kid a choice, _your life or the record, the fucking record man,_ and the kid flat-out says “Kill me” and Shaolin can’t believe his fucking ears.

“I’m in love.” The disco kid says.

“Put me out of my misery.”

So Shaolin pushes, moves the knife, threatens and all the kid does is tip his head back. Total submission, _so do it_. The kid says ‘I’m all heart, do or die’ he talks about _love_ of all things and finally pushes Shaolin in the chest, hard and sudden, _whatchu got_. From bleeding hearts to thug in two breaths but Shaolin never saw fear, not once. He’s drained from energy, from screams and jump-kicks and the adrenaline just feels like crashing. So he laughs. Laughs out the fumes. Laughs out the pride and the anger and gives Sideburns a compromise. He’s rejected and leaves at once, sets off towards the back door. He can feel the kid’s desperation, so different from his own, not urgent enough, not important enough, but his voice is strangled. _I can’t give you the fucking record!_

The disco kid follows anyway.


	3. the place of warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there was an interview with one of the guys from the show - a director? george something? - and he said something about how they didn't want to make the show into 'poverty porn' and he mentioned the Kipling residence as 'a place of warmth' which works so well with both the warm visual imagery in those scenes and the plot itself so this is just like. lil bits and pieces from the lives of. I'll probably dedicate more chapters to this family since it's literally the greatest thing in my life rn have fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is beta-reading

Once, when Ra-Ra was real small, he fell getting into the bathtub and cracked his chin open.

Mama Kipling still gets a bit woozy when dad tells the story. She ain’t never seen that much blood, she says, and then from her own son no less – while she was pregnant with another one. They didn’t have a car but dad went banging on doors across the streets, screaming that his kid was bleeding in the bathroom and if someone didn’t get him a car now he would hold everyone personally responsible. They got a nearby cabby to take ‘em to the nearest hospital. Dizzee sometimes says he’s never been that scared.

He says it’s the first time he was afraid of someone dying.

It was just him and Yolanda in the shop, alone for all those long hours and Dizzee, fiercely protective and terrified had done his best to keep Yolanda from losing it. When dad came back for them, Yolanda was drawing on Dizzee's skin, Dizzee telling her about colors and patterns and he never cried. Dad showed him Ra-ra in the hospital bed with his head tipped back and blue string under his chin. It healed nicely and when Ra-Ra grew up and Boo was born, he sported a scar straight down from his chin for years. He insists that you can still see it.

 

* * *

 

 

Boo started singing when he was four. Yolanda had claimed her favorite place on her daddy's feet by then, waltzing or the next best thing around the kitchen, in complicated maneuvers and they sang wonky little ballads that dad sometimes wrote especially for Yolanda and ma. Yolanda got that voice from her daddy but so did Boo and Boo  _really_ started singing when he was four. Voice like an angel, a real Jackson-brother, ma said. May be he was switched at birth, dad said. Got them moves too.

The Kipling boys were all lean muscle and fast legs and Boo was _strong_ , all that loud boyish snark that was never that obvious in Ra and Dizzee shone out of Boo-Boo like fire crackers - Yolanda too, of course, but don't let her hear you say that. 

So Boo learned to walk and then run and then vault over couches and broken concrete slabs, and he learned to moon walk and boogie and do the funky chicken, which was a definite favorite before 7 am. Boo filled out the crooked hallways of their upstairs apartment with  _high_ notes, and a smooth voice that drew people to the open windows. He'd perform for an adoring crowd in nothing but underwear, hanging off the window sill until a 7 year old Yolanda would drag him back inside. Boo would dodge her knuckles and cover his scalp, Boo would skate under her open arm and skip down the hallway, Boo would sing even louder than before. He started dancing when he was two and singing when he was four and when Ezekiel brought Shaolin into their group, he started rapping too. If nothing else worked he was gonna hustle all the damn way to Jamaica himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Yolanda and Ra were born in December. Christmas babies. A gift for their brother in the early days where he was barely old enough to know what it meant.

Yolanda and Ra both had an impressive mop of coils on their little heads from very early on and they both had their daddy’s big, observant eyes that stared down customers but that’s just about where the resemblance stopped.

Ra-Ra almost never cried and only did so quietly. There were doctors who sent them to physical therapists that argued that something must be wrong with a baby in the South Bronx who never cries. Then Mama and Papa Kipling brought along Yolanda who had the most powerful set of lungs to be seen – heard – in all parts of New York and doctors sent them to physical therapists who argued that it was a case of genetic second-hand compensation – that Yolanda simply felt irked at her brother’s silence and felt the need to fill it out.

When they grew up, ma and pa seemed to expect them to stick together – they both thought otherwise. Ra ventured into popart and pop culture, literature and movie-making while Yolanda found her friends both ways around the block and disco light in alleyways. Both grew up fiercely loyal, but they never found that special connection others expected of them as twins. Yolanda later found that in Dizzie and Ra in Zeke but they only dug the twin thing when it was convenient – old ladies and fake thugs were especially weak to their matching disguise. Flea markets and thrift stores were hunting ground and Yolanda and Ra were nothing if not partners in convenient crime.

The rest of the Kiplings never referred to them as ‘the twins’. Their birthday was never a joke or a reference to something they didn’t care about. They were twins, but they were siblings, most of all.

 

* * *

 

The first time Dizzee got busted, he was 15 and newly acquainted with a Puerto-Rican kid called Crash who did bright, cartoonish works on the open walls near the tunnels. He'd ventured into the night with him and Dizzee's fingers were buzzing as they did when he was dreaming in the dark, marveling at the chance to lead his work throughput the entire city. When the three officers rounded the corner, Dizzee was balancing on the ladder, too much concentration centered on muscle memory and the strain that ran like a cord from his left foot to his wrist to actually react and when Crash was screaming at him the end of the tunnel, too much fear in his voice for his age, there was already a hand on the back of his neck. Dizzee yelled at Crash to get lost and not to tell his dad.

That night was a long one. The arrest wasn't too bad but Dizzee was too psyched to relax, all that terrible energy trashing around in his body, terrified at how good it felt - it felt like crashing. Falling hard from a high place. The universe let him sit there for awhile, wondering in his own ecstasy and then came his dad and Dizzee turned cold. Dizzee never likes to talk about this part, but it's not needed either. All the good stuff is always less good when your dad is disappointed and it's no good at all when your mom is crying.

That night was long and the next days were even longer but Dizzee took it like a man. 'I knew i'd done something to hurt them ' Dizzee says 'Even without meaning to, that shit hurt them'

Another kid might've taken this as a sign. Another kid might've stopped running from the pigs and bettered themselves but not Dizzee. Dizzee was a whole other level of smarts. Dizzee always knew he was gonna create and if rusty trains in the night was to be his canvas he would welcome it - and not for the buzz in his fingers either. The buzz was a bonus, thrilling, swooping high that made him want to bare his soul to the world but that wasn't the reason. Dizz devoted his life to art because he _had_  to. Because to him, every minute not spent creating is ill-spent. Not even because of the result - Dizzee created for the purpose of the act itself. And though seeing his work run horizontal to the sunrise out of the city filled his chest with flowers, he'd still work and work and work, even if it meant he couldnt' see it. Every action's an act of creation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my world yolanda and ra-ra are twins? because Dizzie seems like the big brother, but he can't be that much older right?


	4. the god and the prophet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by serenfyrr's "street art"  
> checkt them out

once, a god and a prophet met in the darkness of a tunnel leading out of the Bronx. 

the god, the golden, met the prophet with powers not known to humans and a look full of awe,

a look that made flowers grow in the shadow of the prophet

and so, the prophet named the god and the god named the prophet and inside an empty train carriage they sat together, like old friends

closer than they would were it the sun and not moon-blue halogens that colored them living.

the god spoke of art and the prophet spoke of music and the air around them quieted as if to allow the silence to sing for itself

 _I feel as if I knew you once,_ the god didn't say and the prophet never answered the same. 

with a book that wasn't his in his hand and a promise for new life he left the god feeling things more explosive and ancient than any painted train carriage had ever conveyed.


	7. Update

I literally never use this account anymore. I'm gonna move this work and maybe also Sonnet 17 over to the account I do use. peace.


End file.
